


I'm A Pirate, You're A Princess

by willgrahamchops



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coercion, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Weechesters, underaged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><br/>He rolls his hips against the line where the stiff denim of Dean's jeans meets his flannel, and says, “It's okay that you're coercing me.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Wrong,” mutters Dean, fingertips flitting from Sam's waistband to the sharp peaks of his hipbones.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Except, at Sam's age he is never wrong. It comes with the territory. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm A Pirate, You're A Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Title from playradioplay. (Thanks to yumixfan for the suggestion.)

Sam, pliant and inviting in his languid, post-indulgent haze. 

Sam, slowly being absorbed into the sloppily folded pull-out. 

Sam, whose affections can be bought and sold with deli sandwiches and banana splits.

From the armchair Dean watches him watch television in his checked boxers and age-thin tee shirt, his spindly legs folded beneath him, sandwich wrapper crumpled between his freckled knees, and Dean thinks: _I'm going to Hell_. He has only recently been convinced that there is a Hell, and has in fact held out thus far specifically because he knows that if there is a Hell, his spot was reserved the second he laid eyes on his baby brother's tan skin and thought: _I want that_. Now that he believes, the next step is making peace.

There is no avoidance. There is no backing out, not when Sam cracks his knuckles and his eyes flit to Dean and say _thanks_. 

“You've got ice cream here,” Dean says gruffly, thumbing the corner of his lip. Sam's eyebrows shoot up into his hair as he searches out the remnants with his tongue. First it's the wrong corner, but he gets it. Sam grins as he piles refuse on the side table for Dean to clean up later. He knows Dean won't protest right now; he stretches cat-like and unfolds his legs out from under himself. 

He watches Dean watch him. The television is forgotten.

Sam knows what he's doing. If it weren't for that, Dean wouldn't be able to live with himself, would steal a car and drive cross-country and hunt the most dangerous things he could find and go out in a blaze of self-sacrifice. If it weren't for Sam knowing. Even if it's Dean's fault for raising him wrong and twisting him into this – into this lazy, arrogant, sultry little nymph in an underdeveloped body – Sam knows what he's doing. That's just enough assurance for Dean to stick around.

In two of his disproportionately long strides, Sam is in front of Dean's chair. He's just a hair shorter than Dean when Dean is sitting, just the right size to curl into his lap and tuck his toes under the backs of Dean's knees. 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, you're welcome. Just don't get used to that shit.” He smirks even as the heat creeps up the back of his neck, concentrating at the point of Sam's touch. Sam holds his weight with his hands clasped, leaning back and examining him with narrowed eyes.

“I know,” he says, shrugging. “'Course. I only get decent food when you're _playing_ me.”

“The hell? I'm not playing anything,” Dean snaps.

But Sam doesn't seem to mind, if his grin is anything to go by – as if he's genuinely amused by Dean's manipulative bullshit, as if Dean is playing him but Sam is winning. He wrinkles his nose, tinged pink by his still-cold breath. He pouts. “C'mon. I'm not the light of your life? Fire of your loins?”

Dean frowns. “ _What?_ ”

“Nevermind,” says Sam. “I forgot you don't read.”

Dean bares his teeth and drags his brother's hips closer, the only retaliation he can fathom, and Sam obliges, pressing the slender line of his body into the touch. He hasn't quite hit his growth spurt yet. Every time Dean thinks it's coming, when he starts to fill out in almost imperceptible ways, Sam proves him wrong. Dean can't wrap his head around the idea of Sam fully grown, perhaps because his brother has learned the nuances of this body already, moves with a coltish grace that speaks of his utter comfort in his current form. Dean doesn't remember taking puberty gracefully.

But Sam is petulant, childish, too clever for his own good; his wit is over-praised at school and under-appreciated at home, leaving him in the marshy ditch between self-absorption and self-loathing. Sam is a contradiction, lethargic and hyperactive, moody and apathetic, awkward and elegant in his premature sensuality. Dean is most comfortable with black and white decisions. Sam is a maddening, muddy grey.

He rolls his hips against the line where the stiff denim of Dean's jeans meets his flannel, and says, “It's okay that you're coercing me.”

“Wrong,” mutters Dean, fingertips flitting from Sam's waistband to the sharp peaks of his hipbones.

Except, at Sam's age he is never wrong. It comes with the territory. 

He smiles and presses a chaste, closed-mouth kiss to the junction of Dean's ear and jaw. He's so utterly relaxed that he would topple over backwards if it weren't for Dean's arms linked behind his lower back, pressing his soft abdomen forward. His hooded eyes search Dean's face for some sign of initiative, but Dean's want is restrained in the typical manner. Sam sometimes wonders who is coercing whom. “Kiss me,” he says, cracking his knuckles again behind Dean's back.

Only with that permission does Dean twist his fingers into Sam's messy hair and draw him in.

Though he usually prefers to take control, with girls, Dean lets Sam dominate the kiss – and Sam always accepts the role with enthusiasm, nipping and licking at Dean's mouth with experience inappropriate at his age. Sam kisses almost the same as Dean, because Dean taught him. 

He barely notices himself stripping Sam's shirt and tugging his boxers off, perhaps because Sam is so incredibly accommodating. He twists his warm little body with every intent to make it easy for Dean. That's the problem. Sam makes it easy.

When Sam next draws away, he's naked and wriggling on Dean's fully-clothed lap, his lips hot and swollen. 

Dean can't help it; he pulls Sam close and groans into his shoulder. “Gonna be the death of me, kid.”

Sam knows. He pushes Dean to arm's length, encouraging him to look, and he does. Sam is original sin, and Dean is powerless to resist temptation.

He's still cherubic from stubborn baby fat, his eyes too wide for his face and threatening to disappear into his bangs. He's spindly in the arms and legs but soft in the middle, sun-kissed and freckled except between his hips and thighs – there he is milky-smooth, pink little cock straining against his belly and leaving smears of watery precome in its wake. He's almost hairless except for a sparse few strays. A late bloomer, except he's nothing of the sort.

He bites his lip in the most obvious and effective display of seduction Dean has ever seen, and says, “You wanna hurt me?”

Dean does. His brother asks this every time, and every time the answer is yes, and every time Dean employs herculean willpower to stop himself from taking Sam up on the offer. He would like nothing more than to grip Sam's slender hips and force him down onto his cock, brutal and unforgiving; he wants to rut into him like they're breeding and force broken little cries out of his brother's throat, but he doesn't. It's not that he thinks his brother can't take it – he's seen Sam hunt and shoot and get thrown around by poltergeists and knows he's perfectly capable of taking it – no, it's a principle sort of thing. As long with he's gentle with Sam, he doesn't have to worry that Sam doesn't want it.

And Sam _does_ want it. He wants it rough. That's just too bad.

“C'mere,” Dean mutters in lieu of a reply, tightening his arm around Sam's lower back, which in turn forces his ass back and up. He offers Sam his hand. “Spit.”

Maintaining eye contact, Sam licks wet stripe down the center of Dean's palm. Then, before Dean has the chance to smack his ass for that, he spits.

“Fucker,” Dean mutters instead, smearing the wetness down Sam's balls and over his entrance, slicking up the whole area. He adds some of his own spit for good measure. It's filthy, everything about it, and Sam rubs shamelessly against his hand.

He's sensitive, gets worked up easily, comes untouched and nearly dry most times. Sam's lips are pink and shiny from where he's been sucking on them. The flush of his arousal is so deep that it penetrates his tan, painting his chest and cheeks a dusty red. Dean slowly rolls Sam's balls in one hand. Sam nuzzles into his neck.

“Gonna fuck me?” He asks in that breathy, high-pitched voice that gets Dean so worked up. It's infuriating. Manipulative little shit.

“No,” Dean grunts. They haven't done that yet, and he's not going to start now. Maybe, a few years from now, if Sam still wants that – but no, Sam won't want this a few years from now. He'll be gone and Dean knows it. Still, he can't help but fantasize about that first time: Sam, spread out on the sheets after being properly wined and dined, candles maybe, flowers. Dean's never done things right with a girl, but his brother is precious, and he wants to treat him accordingly.

He must have been been neglecting Sam, because Sam whines and bites his shoulder. Dean swats his ass. “Gentle,” he reprimands. For Sam's own sake, really.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Sam hisses again. It's not a request, but that doesn't mean Dean can't deny him.

He watches his brother's eyes light up as Dean yanks his jeans down his thighs, like it's fucking Christmas. The kind they see on December television specials, lights and garland and mounds of presents. Dean tries, but Sam's never been this excited on Christmas.

Dean's cock springs free, red and swollen between his thighs, and Sam wastes no time rutting against it. Sloppy. Dean wonders how that even feels good for him at all, and after a moment of wondering, he guides himself to Sam's opening. 

“C'mon,” Sam insists. He knows it's a lost cause, and he _hates_ not getting his way, practically snarls as Dean does exactly what he always does. He drags his cock along Sam's crack, fucking the gap between Sam's thighs.

“That's it,” Dean sighs, urging Sam's legs closer together. “That's it, baby boy.”

“ _Dean_ ,” he whines. Dean ignores him. Their hips jerk arrhythmically. Sam grinds his ass against him – show him what he's missing – and Dean holds him steady. Sam rubs his face into Dean's neck where the skin is hot and tacky with sweat. “Please,” he mutters against Dean's ear. “Just the tip, please, come _on._ ”

_Not gonna hurt you_. That's what Dean wants to say but it isn't what Sam wants to hear. Instead, he rubs his thumb against the head of Sam's cock. Sam squeals. 

“You're gonna be a hit with the ladies,” Dean says. “Barely last two minutes if I let you, hm?”

Sam bites again, and Dean is forced to pull him off by the hair. “Fucking _no._ ” 

This only encourages Sam to bite elsewhere: Dean's ears, his chest, his shoulders. He swats Sam away only for him to pop up again. It's so annoying that Dean has to pull back for a moment. “ _Stop_ ,” he says.

“Fingers,” Sam says, clenching his jaw.

Dean rolls his eyes. It's a defeat, bargaining like this, but Sam looks so damn pretty with his hair all tousled and his nipples standing out pink and insistent against his skinny chest. Dean wants to bite them, but that would be hypocritical of him. Bargaining, then. He's fingered Sammy a few times before – it's not that he doesn't want to give Sam what he wants, because he _does_ , it's just that Sam always wants what's bad for him.

He shoves two fingers into Sam's mouth without warning, but Sam doesn't seem to mind. He sucks at them smugly, something Dean didn't know was possible until now.

And then he does it. 

Mostly, Dean doesn't think about this, about them, because thinking too hard just makes him want to hurt something, usually himself. Usually he thinks about Sam as his baby brother, his charge – except when Sam provokes him, which is always. Which is right now, Sam shoving back against his fingers panting _deeper, deeper, more_ into Dean's sweaty hair, lifting himself up wriggling back down to try and force Dean's compliance. He whines for it, bites, swears until Dean gives in and pushes his fingers in as deep as they'll go and _twists_. His jaw falls slack. His hips roll against Dean's abdomen. Dean wants to fuck him until he bleeds.

“Love you,” Dean mutters. He tries not to say things like that, as a rule, but especially not when he and Sam are – he doesn't want it to feel exploitative; it just seems wrong to – 

But he does it. And he means it. And Sam nuzzles into him and arches back onto his fingers and pants:

“I love you too.”

It's disgusting.

Sam keeps spreading his thighs to better accommodate Dean's fingers, which is beautiful and obscene but also inconvenient. Dean abandons the original plan and instead presses their cocks together. Sam squeals. They nearly slide off the chair, and Dean has to stop everything and adjust his position, urging Sam along with him, before he's finally able to wrap his free hand around both of them and rut up against Sam.

When he looks up, his brother is focused on the place where they meet. Dean can't help but look as well: his cock poking up over his fist and Sam's, a good two inches shorter, barely visible. Without thinking, he switches to a two-finger grip so he can see Sam's cock, small and pink and shiny, drooling precome over his fingers. Sammy always gets so wet for him. He opens his mouth to say something to that effect but realizes how dirty that would be and instead kisses Sam's collarbones, careful not to use teeth. Sam pulls his hair.

“Dean,” he gasps, high and reedy because his fucking voice hasn't _fucking_ dropped yet. Dean pulls off to see him utterly wrecked, porn-filthy and practically drooling, hair standing up and in his eyes and everywhere it isn't supposed to be. His cock twitches against Dean's. His ass clenches. Dean doesn't imagine what it would feel like to bury his dick in his brother, how unbearably tight he would be, how fucking loud he would scream as Dean ripped him open on his cock. He doesn't bare his teeth and moan so low it sounds like a growl. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam insists. His eyelids flutter. He digs his nails into Dean's biceps.

Dean fucks him with his fingers and thrusts too hard, skin dragging against skin. A second later, Sam sobs and spurts weakly against Dean's cock. He can barely come; it's insubstantial and there's not much of it, probably because everything he's got leaks out the second Dean first touches him – but Sam freezes board-stiff and then gasps like he's drowning and shakes violently with the intensity of it. Everything he _did_ manage drips down Dean's cock until it's slick again. Dean, lost now, thrusts against him even though he whines from oversensitivity.

He withdraws his fingers, leaving Sam loose in every sense of the word, in danger of toppling off Dean's lap. Instead, Dean draws him forward to collapse against his chest. He cuddles close and shivers with each brush of Dean's cock against his, and Dean comes after four shivers, all over Sam's belly.

A breath.

The moments after they're finished always seem inhumanly quiet. The blood pounding through Dean's head subsides. Sam is dead weight.

He strokes Sam's hair just to hear him sigh in content, and he refuses to move until Sam does. By then they're nearly stuck together. As Sam clamors off his lap, eyes dark and bleary, Dean is overcome with an affection so deep that it cuts through him, and as Sam stumbles to the bathroom Dean bleeds out onto the shitty motel carpet.

He's dead when Sam comes back, so Sam kisses his forehead and sponges him off and tucks him in. He forces Dean's body to make space enough for him to curl up, so his brother is breathing down the back of his neck, and twists his head to press a brief kiss against Dean's lips.

“It's okay,” he whispers. Warmth spreads outward on his breath, into every crevice and tear Dean didn't know he had.

Dean shudders, but he's dead so he doesn't reply.


End file.
